Peter Out
by Malhearst
Summary: Perhaps he did it all for love.
**Author's Note:** Written for QLFC (Season 4, Round 1). Position: Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons

 **Word Count:** 2987

 _Write about a Death Eater being with their family._

* * *

 _"I didn't mean to! The Dark Lord… you've no idea of the weapons he possesses."_

.ooo.

A group of translucent figures huddled together in the small living room. Every now and then, a couple of them would shuffle awkwardly around each other, as if forgetting that considerations of space no longer applied to them. Muffled voices ebbed and flowed with the attitude of an apologetic churchgoer, and all of them emitted a soft glow, like early morning sun shining through frosted windows.

All around them, the colours of the living world had faded into washed-out hues of blue and white, as chemical, although not as sterile, as the sharp glare of St. Mungo's hospital light. In front of them sat a young boy on the carpeted floor, eating cereal with an air of desperation. A few muggle toys lay scattered around him—some wooden trains, a teddy bear, and a plastic cup on the coffee table behind him—but he was otherwise alone.

"Am I late to the party?" a voice sounded from behind the group of spectres, making several of its members turn around. Frederic Pettigrew arrived to cheers from some and scowls from others, but his spirit was unshakable.

The boy kept eating his cereal, unaffected.

"So, St. Mungo's finally let you go, huh?" someone asked Frederic.

"Yes. They were sorry to," Frederic gave the old man who had just spoken a pat on the back, beaming like the sun, "but you can't hold back a Pettigrew. So, where's the cake?"

An elderly woman approached him, her smile throwing her wrinkles into sharp relief, and embraced him with a deep sigh.

"Mum," Frederic muttered into the ghostly strains of her hair.

"You join us too early, my son," she responded, holding him out at arm's length. The closest relatives of Peter Pettigrew looked at each other morosely.

Most of them were used to meeting each other on the birthdays of their closest living relatives; it was the fate of the dead to watch over the living and to judge the people they became, but most of those present were over fifty.

"Is that him?" Frederic asked, pointing. He immediately fell to his knees in front of the small boy with a mixture of joy and sadness, looking at the child in awe for a few seconds while everyone else seemed to hold their breaths. He squinted, as if trying to recognise the son he'd seen six years ago, before the accident.

"My boy," the man, no more than twenty-six, said airily. He then inhaled sharply and rose to his feet. "Where's Eugenia?"

A few quiet answers blended together to form one unintelligible response.

"She's not home yet, my love," his mother said clearly, and he turned his head to look at her just before the door opened down the hall and a young woman stepped inside, shedding her coat. As she walked towards, through, and past them, tears still in her eyes, their bodies and heads turned to follow her descent. Eugenia soon came to her knees in the exact spot where Frederic had been sitting only moments earlier.

"Pete," she said after a long, excruciating silence. "Peter."

The boy hadn't looked up the first time, childishly intent on his cereal, but now he did, dropping the spoon into a sea of milk.

He didn't say anything, only stared questioningly at her. Eugenia dropped her gaze to the floor, sniffed violently, and brought up a handkerchief to her nose as she looked up and to the side.

"Eugenia," Frederic said softly from behind his dimensional veil, reaching out to her, but eternally unable to touch her.

"Why are you crying, Mum?" the boy asked in a high-pitched tone of voice.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said, obviously straining to sound cheerful, "but your mum's forgotten to buy your cake." Trying her best at a comforting smile, she failed.

"That's nothing to cry about," said Peter. Then, after a thoughtful pause, "What about Dad? Did he wake up?"

"Oh, Peter," his mother cried, reaching forward to tug him awkwardly into her arms. The small boy let himself be pulled into her embrace, eyes widening in surprise. After a while, he pushed himself away from her chest, looking at her with the confused concern of a seven-year-old.

His mother, bravely trying to choke down her tears, gave him a weak smile.

"Why are you crying?" Peter asked again.

"Peter," the woman said, looking him in the eyes, "your dad isn't waking up."

At this, the figure of Frederic Pettigrew buzzed and dematerialised, his wounded expression replaced by a confused one, and a quick jab of energy sparked from where he disappeared.

Not far from the grieving mother and her son, a glass of water shattered, making both of them look over at the shards on the floor.

"Mum?" a seven-year-old Peter Pettigrew started tentatively, "Are ghosts real?"

.ooo.

Several years later, the figures convened again. It was a ritual, ancient and hallow, and they couldn't have missed it if they tried; Peter's birthday had become an annual test of their familial ties, but it was their duty nonetheless.

In front of them, two figures on a parapet sat looking out over the Hogwarts grounds. The boys on the rooftop could not sense the figures who so diligently studied their every move—they were simply boys, fifteen years old and greater fans of Astronomy lessons than Divination.

"So," said one boy. He was slumped slightly forward, an air of defeat about him. An ironic smile was tugging at the corner of his lips. "Now you know."

He was fishing out something—a cigarette, the spectres learned with a certain air of horror—and sat playing with it for a while before offering it to the other boy.

The two boys looked at each other questioningly, neither wanting to smoke and both of them seemingly pleading with the other to say no.

In the end, the cigarette was accepted.

"We all have secrets, Remus," the other boy answered vaguely as he fumbled with the pin, trying to light it in the strong autumn wind.

"I have never touched one of those horrific things in my life!" screeched Peter's maternal grandmother, comfortable in her own invisibility.

"No, me neither," a man said, walking over and taking her ghostly hand in his. He patted it gently as if to assure her that she had said the right thing, and she gave him a smile that was all gums.

Frederic Pettigrew jokingly called into the crowd, "Yes, those darn younger generations. When will they ever learn?"

"Shhh!" the woman who had spoken out against cigarettes hissed.

"Ah, Helena! Your voice is soft and sweet, as always."

He bowed to strangled laughs and quiet chuckles. Helena Pettigrew retorted by rolling her eyes and turning around.

While this spectacle unfolded in the spirit world, Remus Lupin had quickly and awkwardly leaned over towards Peter Pettigrew and cupped his hands around the smoke to help Peter light it. When they succeeded, Peter took a drag, giving Remus a withering smile and holding up a thumb.

A second later, he coughed violently.

"See? See, what did I tell you? Those- _things_ will be the death of our poor boy!" Helena shrieked.

"Yes, well, at least you can take comfort in the fact that he will soon be able to take your advice, if that is the case," Frederic said, voice dripping with irony.

"Enough!" a figure of about seventy, with a booming voice and a commanding, yet thoughtful presence, bellowed. The spirit of Anders Pettigrew, Frederic's father, stepped forward. "Frederic, leave Helena be. And Helena, please, let us save his judgement for later, shall we?"

Helena looked confused, as if she couldn't decide whether to be insulted or softened at the words. It didn't matter; the result was the same. The old woman nodded at the apparition and turned around, lips pursed in contemplation.

Before them, Remus had started coughing too. "Sirius gave me these, but bloody hell!"

Helena gasped but soon collected herself.

Peter, almost done coughing, had started laughing instead, and soon Remus joined him. Two fifteen-year-old Gryffindors sat on the rooftop of Hogwarts, spluttering or laughing; no one would have been able to tell the difference.

"Thank you," Remus said after a while, as silence had once again permeated the space between them.

The other boy turned his head and smiled at him genuinely before suddenly furrowing his brows and asking, "For what?"

Remus shrugged. "For making me feel like I wasn't alone."

"The Animagus idea was Sirius'. I swear, he has an obsession with his namesake."

"That's not what I meant."

"You mean about the secrets?" Peter asked then.

"Mhmm." Remus nodded in confirmation.

"I haven't even told you mine," said Peter with an almost wistful expression on his face.

A hand touched his shoulder, which made Peter turn his head.

"You don't have to," Remus said solemnly. So solemnly, in fact, that Peter started laughing nervously.

"What, what?" A slightly desperate tone laced Remus's voice, which only made Peter descend further into his airy chuckles.

"Nothing, nothing," Peter finally said. "I was just imagining if Sirius had been here."

Next to him, Remus fell back against the stones, saying flatly, "Yeah, yeah. Why so serious."

Something about the way Remus said it stopped Peter's giggles immediately. A part of him wanted to keep laughing, to diffuse the situation, and to use humour the way James and Sirius always did. Another, more realistic part knew that he wouldn't be able to pull it off and that it wasn't what Remus needed. Instead, he leaned back too, his shoulder against the wall, looking at his friend.

"What form do you think you'll take?" Remus asked into the air.

In another dimension, a small murmur arose; the boys noticed nothing but the cool of the night air and the stars above them.

"A rat, I think."

"A rat?" Remus asked, alarmed, "Why?"

Peter shrugged. "Because James and Sirius take themselves way too seriously already. I don't want to dance to the same tune."

Feeling Remus's curious gaze lingering on him, he continued, "Besides, a rat is way more useful than a freaking stag! What do you think a reindeer will accomplish if we need to sneak in somewhere? His stale puns won't save him then!"

Peter laughed at the thought, and Remus wasn't far behind.

"Hey guys," Remus said in a mocking imitation of James, "about this Yule Ball - I think I'll just go _stag_ , hurr hurr hurr."

"Honestly, guys, you'll never have to throw _me_ a _stag_ party. Get it?" Peter continued, making Remus double over from laughter.

"He _would_ say 'Get it', wouldn't he?" Remus asked in-between his chuckles.

"Aha," Peter agreed, a proud smirk upon his face.

"Wait." Remus had stopped laughing suddenly, and Peter looked up at his friend with a worried look on his face. "What?"

"Isn't it your birthday today?" Remus turned his head to look at Peter with a sense of horror at his own forgetfulness.

In return, Peter looked down himself, hands fidgeting with nothing in particular, before saying, "Yeah, but don't worry about it."

Remus scowled. "I gather the other two forgot as well?"

"Frightful children," Helena said spitefully. "To forget our Peter's birthday."

"He hasn't exactly done much to stand out from his friends - or to stand up to them. I heard one of his professors call him 'a daily study in hero worship'; he follows those kids - what are their names - Potter and Black around as if _he_ was the dog," Anders Pettigrew said with a look of condescending disappointment on his face.

"That's not fair, Dad," Frederic Pettigrew snapped, pushing forward and holding up a finger as if teaching his father a lesson in childcare, "Peter is sensitive. That professor doesn't understand him, she only sees a Gryffindor who's not boisterous _or_ studious, and she rules him out!"

"That doesn't mean she's wrong," his father countered, but everyone fell silent when Peter spoke suddenly.

"Actually, there's one thing you could do for me, if you're not too tired."

Across from Peter, Remus' brows furrowed. "Yes?" he asked hesitantly.

"Have a séance with me."

.ooo.

"This is ridiculous." Sirius Black was pacing up and down the floor of the Divination classroom in frustration. Much more calmly, the other three were seated on the floor, tinkering with some candles and a piece of chalk.

"Come on, Pete, you don't really believe all of this nonsense, do you?" Sirius asked condescendingly.

Peter, sitting on a pillow next to James, shrugged.

"Come off it, mate, isn't this what we do? Help each other?" James said before Sirius could start ranting again. Sirius looked like a popped balloon; whatever he had been about to say only came out in the form of a long, awkward sigh.

He always had to have the last word.

"But ghosts? We already know what ghosts look like. Don't you think that's reason enough to mistrust the whole concept of a Ouija board?"

"We're not using a Ouija board," Remus corrected.

"You know what I mean," Sirius said sourly, but after that, he resigned himself to his seat with an air of mild discomfort.

"It's only because-" Peter began, trying to explain. Something about Sirius's sharp tongue made him hold his own.

"Go on," Remus encouraged him. James sat opposite them, a curious look on his face.

Shaking his head, Peter merely said, "You'll see."

When final preparations had been made, the four of them sat down, ready to perform the ritual. It was a rather basic one, found in an old Divination book and horribly similar to something Peter had seen before in muggle stories. As it became time for Peter to summon the spirit he wanted, his voice cracked.

Snickers could be heard from Sirius and James, but Peter tried again.

"Dad, if you can hear me, please. I need your guidance."

Sitting next to him, Remus gave Peter's hand a small squeeze.

Sirius bumped his knee into Remus', still trying to communicate how ridiculous he found the idea, and Remus opened his left eye to look at the fool. Then he made a few angry shapes with his mouth before closing his eyes again.

"Dad, if you're here, please give me a sign."

On the other side of the veil, Frederic Pettigrew appeared. He tried to reach out, but nothing happened. Hoping that he could remind Peter of the day he'd died, he tried willing one of the lamps to smash. Nothing happened.

"Well, this was all a load of bullocks," he heard one of the boys say.

"Haven't you had enough, Peter?" one of the others asked, while a third said, "It's okay, Pete."

"Well, I suppose…" Frederic Pettigrew's son started, and suddenly, one of the lamps smashed, startling all four boys.

"Ooookay," said Sirius, looking at the lamp.

"Peter?" Remus was trying to contact the boy on his right, whose wide eyes were fixed on the spot where the lamp had shattered.

"That's exactly like…" Peter said slowly, his voice numb as he stared.

"Like what?"

"Dad, I have a question!" Peter suddenly yelled.

The other three had opened their eyes and now sat looking at their friend with equal amounts of surprise and disbelief on their faces.

"I need to know- was it Mum's fault? Did she do it? I mean, she won't talk to me about it, but there's more to the accident, I know! Was it- was it her fault?"

Frederic Pettigrew regarded his only child morosely. He knew that Peter had carried this question for many years. For many years they had watched him, his closest relatives convening on his birthday—some sick contrast to their obsession with their own deaths—judging and weighing him as if he was a prize pig.

But Peter was a sensitive boy, and Frederic had always understood, although he'd never known how sensitive until now.

"Peter."

Frederic's voice caused a reaction with the boys, though he couldn't tell what effect it had had on the other side.

"I can't say yes, but I can't say no."

All that was heard in the world of the living, was an eerie, disembodied voice, calling faintly, "Yes."

.ooo.

"Ah, the rat."

Several years after that fateful night, Peter Pettigrew was cornered. The war was raging, and there had not been a time or a place for a birthday party, but they had thrown him one anyway. It had been the first time in years that he had let his guard down.

Sadly, so had everyone else.

Death Eaters had chased him and the others from the scene, and here, in the darkness of a tight alleyway, Peter was beginning to believe that what others said about him was true: he was nothing without his friends.

He would die here, without them, his birthday and deathday blurring into absurdity, and so few would mourn him.

"Leave us be."

The icy voice of Lord Voldemort ran cold down his spine as the faithful followers of the Dark Lord scattered, spreading out to take care of everyone Peter held dear.

"Wormtail, right?"

Peter was breathing heavily, his heart in his throat.

"Ah, you're thinking of your mother."

"No!" Peter screamed immediately, feeling more the coward for it.

"Don't worry. I know all about her. A Mudblood, but a pretty one. They're dangerous, you know. Their magic is unpredictable." A pause. "Isn't she the reason your father is dead?"

Behind the veil, a collection of the people who wished Peter all the best held their breaths, forgetting that they no longer had one.

"Let's make a deal. I'll let her live. In return, you do something for me."

And as Peter's ancestors watched him, shaking and close to tears, ask the Dark Lord _what_ , Frederic Pettigrew let out a small sob.


End file.
